


Kennedy’s Will

by veronamay



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Angst, Dead Kennedy Universe, Emotional Baggage, Episode: Mutiny, Episode: Retribution, Fanzine Submission, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-15
Updated: 2005-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bush agrees to fulfill Kennedy's final wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kennedy’s Will

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a submission to the Hornblower zine [Sidekicks at Sea](http://www.lionheartdistribution.com/hornblower.htm#sidekicks).
> 
> Eternal and heartfelt thanks to [](http://la-reine-bleu.livejournal.com/profile)[**la_reine_bleu**](http://la-reine-bleu.livejournal.com/) for several hard months of sterling editing services. Any remaining errors are my own.

Kennedy shifted in the bed and moaned. His body was lightly filmed with sweat, his hair spread loose and disheveled across the pillow. The stark white of the bedsheets contrasted sharply with the warm golden colour of his skin, so lately kissed by the sun. The dim lamplight highlighted the planes and angles of his face, exposing his beauty even as his face twisted with the effort to subdue his feelings. His eyes were clenched shut, his hands gripping the sheets weakly, his breaths short and choppy. He was so obviously keeping as still as possible that anyone watching would ache at the sight of such restraint, and pray for something to break it.

The moment swelled, stretched. The room was silent but for the sounds of two men breathing. There was a pause in one rhythm, as though waiting for some doom to fall.

Kennedy reared up off the bed and coughed, producing such a hacking, gulping sound that Bush feared he would choke. He forced himself upright in his own bed, ignoring the slice of fire that burned across the cut on his chest as he moved as quickly as he could to Kennedy's side.

"Shh," he murmured, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. He looked to the rickety table that stood between their beds and discovered a basin of fresh water and cloths ready for use. He took up a cloth and shifted to sit as close behind Kennedy as he could, holding him upright to keep his lungs clear.

"Spit," he ordered, once Kennedy stopped coughing, and Kennedy obeyed. A worryingly large amount of blood was mixed in with the phlegm, but he made no mention of it. Kennedy spat three times and then relaxed, lying back against him in exhaustion.

"I can't take much more of this," Kennedy said faintly. "It's getting so I can't even breathe properly."

Bush wadded up the soiled cloth and tossed it to the floor. He wet another cloth and wiped Kennedy's face clean, allowing a little dampness to cross his lips in defiance of Doctor Clive's orders. The man was going to die anyway; why refuse him water when it would only quicken the process?

"How are you feeling?" Bush asked.

Kennedy managed a ghost of a laugh. "Like I've been shot," he replied.

Bush raised an eyebrow. "Well, you've not lost your sense of humour. That's something, I suppose."

Kennedy didn't reply. He had closed his eyes again, and seemed to be concentrating on breathing evenly. Bush wiped the sweat from his face and as much of his body as he could reach, and damned Buckland's self-serving incompetence to the lowest pit of hell.

"There's always ..." Bush trailed off.

Kennedy swallowed. "What?"

Bush didn't like the idea, but perhaps it was the best way. "Doctor Clive left a bottle of laudanum here."

"No." Kennedy's voice was firm.

Bush relaxed minutely. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Don't tell Horatio about this," Kennedy said after a while. Bush peered over his shoulder, trying to see his face.

"Why not?"

"He thinks I'm getting better. The last thing I want is for him to be worrying about me when he's facing charges of mutiny."

Bush privately wondered if Kennedy's mind had begun to fray. A blind man could look at him and see that he wasn't going to survive another week; Hornblower was far from blind. Especially where Kennedy was concerned.

"You'll have to tell him sometime," was all he said. "Unless you mean for him to find out on the day of your funeral."

Kennedy was silent again. Bush made himself as comfortable as he could and waited.

Eventually Kennedy said, "I don't think they'll give me a funeral, if I do what I have in mind."

"What?" Bush frowned; the man must be delirious.

"I have been thinking, Mr Bush, about my death. And I have been thinking about Horatio. I have devised a plan. And I shall need your help to undertake it. Let me tell you what I have in mind."

Bush listened, and when Kennedy was done, he found it hard to swallow.

"Mr Kennedy," he said hoarsely, "it will be an honour to serve you in this endeavour."

Kennedy smiled, his eyes still closed. "I was hoping you'd say that."

* * *

Morning brought with it a great deal of pain and the fear that they would be found out -- not by the inquiry, but that Hornblower would visit unexpectedly. Kennedy's plan relied on Hornblower's absence from the infirmary. Luck was with them, however, and Bush saw Kennedy into the dubious care of Doctor Clive with a smile and a sincere wish for success, keeping his worry hidden.

Kennedy seized his hand and held it tightly. "Thank you, sir," he whispered in a voice roughened with pain and blood. "Horatio owes his life to you. I would be very glad if you would ensure that he does not squander it. He will need a friend; I believe you can give him the ... care ... he deserves."

Bush started at the words, delivered in a tone that said nothing and everything at once. He met Kennedy's gaze; he had thought his feelings hidden so deeply no-one could discern them, but clearly he was wrong. Or perhaps Kennedy only saw in him what he himself felt. In any event, Kennedy seemed not to object, as Bush had feared he would, but rather showed an admiration on his own account that struck Bush to the bone. At this point, had he been asked, he could not have said which man was closer to his heart.

Bush cleared his throat in embarrassment, but gripped Kennedy's hand tightly in return.

"I will," he said, and added, "Thank you," mindful of Clive's curiosity.

Kennedy smiled, seemingly with no pain at all now. "You are most welcome."

Bush watched him go, and sent a prayer after him.

Hornblower's arrival a few minutes later caused Bush a deeper pain than he had thought possible after Kennedy's departure. The look on Hornblower's face when he realised where Kennedy had gone was awful to behold; Bush could not stop himself from moving to comfort him, though of course it was too late for that. He could only imagine the scene at the inquiry. Hornblower would be devastated, Kennedy determined to save the life of his dear friend the only way he could. Bush could not think on it without feeling anguish; how, then, must Hornblower feel?

Following an impulse the like of which rarely plagued him, Bush made his slow way to the inquiry in Hornblower's wake. He was far behind, and so did not see the moment when Kennedy confessed, nor Hornblower's reaction; but he saw the aftermath, when Kennedy collapsed on the stand and had to be carried out, and Hornblower's stumbling exit, a free man at the expense of Kennedy's life. There was nothing to say or do in that moment. Bush simply took Hornblower's arm and drew him away to shed his tears in private, and kept silent watch over him until the first storm of grief was gone.

* * *

Bush had only one regret during the days that followed -- he was not permitted to see Kennedy again, so there was no chance for a last farewell. He was moved from the makeshift infirmary that same morning, and did not even see Hornblower again for two days.

Kennedy was not permitted a funeral, of course. His body was hanged and buried in an unmarked grave without rites, bereft of any honour as befitted a murderer and a mutineer. The thought pained Bush; worse, he did not have the funds to correct the problem. The best he could do was to discover the location of the grave and visit with such flowers as he could gather on the way.

As he stood over the small mound of earth atop a lonely hill outside the fort, he felt his respect and pride for the masters he served begin to drain away, quietly and without remorse. He could no longer blindly obey the established authority simply because it _was_ established; he meant to seek out some other loyalty to bind him in its stead, something that would allow him to sleep at night and look at himself without flinching.

He heard a footstep behind him on the path and knew the search would not prove difficult.

Hornblower joined him at the foot of the grave. The day was sweltering hot and Bush's newly healed cuts were itching unbearably. He stood as straight as he could and nodded a greeting.

"Sir." Hornblower was pale despite the heat. "It's good of you to come. Archie thought very highly of you."

"The feeling was quite mutual," Bush replied. "I regret his loss, Mr Hornblower. He was a good man."

Hornblower smiled. "Exactly what he said of you." He looked at the grave for several silent minutes. Bush waited, unable to offer comfort - it would not be appropriate now, with Kennedy's face still fresh in both their minds, though for different reasons. He clasped his hands behind his back to ensure they would not betray him.

Finally Hornblower looked up as if remembering Bush was there. His face was wet; he made no issue of the fact, but made to wipe it with his sleeve. Bush was ready with a handkerchief even as he raised his arm. Hornblower looked at it as if he had never seen one before.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice. Then, in a stronger tone, "I cannot thank you enough for what you did for Archie. I can never repay your kindnesses. You were a friend when he needed one badly."

Bush shook his head quickly. "There's no need to thank me. I did only what any decent man would have done. I only wish--"

"Yes." Hornblower closed his eyes briefly. "As do I."

It struck Bush that Hornblower spoke as would a bereaved spouse. They had spent ten years together; that was a lifetime in the Navy. Hornblower's grief undoubtedly ran deep.

Bush cast a last look at the grave and took his leave. Hornblower added a parting word as he started back down the hill.

"We are invited to dine with Captain Cogshill this evening, sir," he said. "He has taken command of _Renown_ and wishes to become acquainted with his officers."

Bush suppressed a grimace; that meant not only Hornblower's company, which was most welcome, but Buckland's and probably Clive's as well. He was sure that such an evening would not be pleasant. However, there was no chance of his refusing; one did not deny one's captain the pleasure of one's company when requested, be it at dinner or on the gun deck.

"Thank you," he said. "It will be enjoyable in some respects, at least." And, greatly daring, Bush inclined his head to leave Hornblower in no doubt of his meaning. He did not mean to approach Hornblower for anything; not yet. But he saw no harm in carrying out Kennedy's last wish, to let Hornblower know that he yet had a friend.

Hornblower looked surprised; then he smiled again, a shadow of the warm grin Bush had seen before, but a real smile nonetheless. "I shall share your pleasure in the evening, sir," he said. "At five o'clock, then?"

Bush nodded and went away toward the fort, his step and heart lighter than it had been in months.

* * *

Dinner was a tense affair; apart from the obvious ill feelings shown by Buckland and Clive's studied indifference, there was again the constant ordeal of trying to gauge the captain's mood and act accordingly, though thankfully Cogshill appeared to be of sound mind, which was a refreshing change in itself. Hornblower's presence was the only redeemable feature of the evening, in Bush's opinion; but Hornblower was called away to the flagship during the first course and Bush was left to find his way through the evening alone. He said little and drank more than he should, which led to a guilty feeling of contentment by the time Hornblower returned. The captain was in mid-toast and judged Hornblower's news to be most opportune.

"He's made me commander of _Retribution_ ," Hornblower said without expression. Bush stared at him in wordless delight, his glass already half-raised in a toast.

The captain thumped the table. "Well done!" he cried, and grabbed for the brandy. "Here's to Mr Hornblower, gentlemen!"

Bush carried his glass up to complete its journey. He caught Hornblower's eye and smiled his pleasure at the news; Hornblower's face thawed a little and he nodded in return, though he seemed to take no joy in it himself.

"Damn you!" Buckland erupted, clearly deep in his cups. "Damn you to hell!"

Hornblower looked as though he had been damned, Bush thought, sobering a little. However, he did his best to raise his spirits, toasting him with the captain and then regaling one and all with a rousing chorus of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow' all the way back to their quarters.

"Quiet now, Mr Bush," Hornblower whispered as they staggered to his room. "You'll bring everyone down on our heads."

"Let 'em come," Bush declared. "Commander, by God! If that's not worth a celebration, what is?" He sat on his bed, of necessity drawing Hornblower with him, since he had an arm around his neck for balance.

Hornblower smiled. "You're drunk. You'll have a dreadful head in the morning."

"I don't care. Congratulations, sir," Bush said, and meant it. He did not feel odd calling Hornblower 'sir'; it was inevitable that he should do so, he felt, and moreover he was pleased to be the first to address him so.

Hornblower lay him down on the bed and removed his shoes and stockings. "Since you appear to have no valet this evening, I shall make you comfortable," he said. Bush peered up at him as Hornblower loosened his neckcloth and undid his waistcoat.

"You're not at all foxed, are you?" he asked, frowning. "That won't do, sir. You must celebrate your good fortune!"

"I am not feeling especially celebratory this evening, Mr Bush," Hornblower said shortly, standing upright. "I thank you for your good wishes, but I find it difficult to be lighthearted just at present."

Bush heaved himself upright; his uniform coat tangled his arms, so he wrenched it off and tossed it over the foot of the bed. He looked more closely at Hornblower; the man appeared tightly wound, on the edge of some dangerous emotional precipice.

"Of course," Bush said quietly. "Forgive me, sir." Contrition plagued him. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment, that Hornblower's promotion was paid for with Kennedy's life?

Hornblower didn't reply, but stared at the floor wearing that same strained expression so familiar in recent days. Bush wanted to help him somehow; the man was obviously suffering. But how to offer?

"Sir," he began hesitantly, "I cannot help but notice your distress...."

Hornblower's head snapped up. "Yes?" he said sharply.

Bush persevered. "I only wondered if -- if you wished to talk. About anything. I don't wish to pry, of course, but if it would be of any help to you -- well, I am at your disposal." He shifted his weight and tried to smile, convinced that he had made a bad job of it.

There was silence in the room. Hornblower did not move. Bush could feel his heart beating faster as he waited.

"Mr Bush." Hornblower's voice was expressionless. "You -- that--" He swallowed, his throat muscles working. Bush pulled his legs out of the way and gestured to the bed, since his room held no chair.

"Forgive me for asking," he said quietly. "Is it ... Mr Kennedy?"

Hornblower nodded and slumped to sit sideways on the bed, leaning back against the wall. He looked exhausted. "I -- you must understand, I am not used to such confidences, Mr Bush, but ... well. I miss him."

Stated so plainly, with no attempt to hide the feeling behind it, the admission gave Bush leave to be equally honest.

"As do I, sir," he said. "I thought him a man of extraordinary loyalty and courage. I am honoured to have known him, even for so short a time."

Tears appeared in Hornblower's eyes again; having no handkerchief to offer this time, Bush proffered his discarded neckcloth instead. Hornblower let out a choked laugh and waved it off, producing his own linen.

"I am prepared this time," he said with a small smile. That was four, Bush noted; not an ill beginning.

Hornblower went on after putting the handkerchief to good use. "How well did you come to know Archie, Mr Bush? Fairly well, I take it, given your time together in the infirmary?"

"Yes," Bush agreed. "He told me something of himself, and naturally of how he met you. Your friendship was a topic much on his mind."

Hornblower looked at him intently. "I see. And -- did he speak much of our time on _Indefatigable_? Or perhaps on _Renown_ before you joined us?"

Bush knew what he was asking. If he answered the question at face value, he could remain safe, alone in his knowledge and his newfound awareness. On the other hand....

"Some of it," he said steadily. "Not all. There was not time, and of course not everything can be told. But I am conscious of your history, sir."

There; that was delicate enough, and easy to keep on the surface if Hornblower so desired. Bush hoped through his rapidly dissipating drunkenness that Hornblower's desire lay elsewhere. Not now; he was not that insensitive. But someday, perhaps ....

"I see," Hornblower said again, and raised an eyebrow. "It does not unsettle you at all?"

"Not in the slightest, sir." Bush took a breath. "I count both you and Mr Kennedy among the most honourable gentlemen I have ever met. In fact, since meeting you I have made certain discoveries concerning my own ... affections. "

He fell silent, his nerves jangling. This was a grave risk, an act that could not be undone, and quite probably a chance taken far too soon. He waited for the rebuff that would surely come.

Hornblower's face, when he looked up, was still and white as chalk. Bush moved forward involuntarily.

"Sir, are you ill? I did not mean to distress you further ... sir? Are you all right?"

Hornblower recovered at his words, colour flowing back into his cheeks. "Don't call me sir," he said almost violently. "Not you, Bush. I am not your superior."

"But...." Bush was at a loss. "Are you sure you're all right? You were very pale."

"I am well. I was merely startled by your words. Free acceptance of such a thing is not something I have encountered before. --Tell me, Mr Bush, are you always so solicitous of your colleagues?" Hornblower asked suddenly. "Or do I enjoy favoured status? And do you worry for me on Archie's behalf or your own?"

If he was confused before, Bush was completely lost now. What on earth could he say? He was barely able to admit these things to himself – fear of discovery had made him bury the knowledge as deep as he possibly could. Kennedy had managed to find out, somehow – but how could he possibly say anything to Hornblower, at such a time as this?

But if he did not, might he not lose the chance?

Hornblower took pity on him before he made up his mind. "Never mind, Mr Bush. The questions were not fair. And you have answered them without meaning to, I think. To answer your question: no, I am not all right, but in time I believe I will be. And I believe that is what Archie wanted you to ensure, is it not?"

Bush gave up trying to be discreet. "Yes," he admitted, remembering at the last minute not to add 'sir'. "It was his wish that you did not squander your life after he went to so much trouble to save it. That was his feeling, at least, if not his exact words to me."

Hornblower stared at him, then let out a laugh that was both warm and full, and the more surprising for both. Bush filed away another smile for later reflection.

"Do you know, I believe that's exactly what he was thinking," Hornblower said at last. His smile lingered, and his gaze was warm. Bush found it difficult to hold that look; his face grew hot and his palms sweaty before Hornblower released him, settling himself more comfortably against the wall.

"Si—" He caught himself quickly. "Mr Hornblower. I was not completely forthcoming in my earlier answer; in truth, Mr Kennedy and yourself were central to my discoveries of where my interest in these matters lies. I did not wish to intrude upon you or Mr Kennedy."

Hornblower's eyes warmed even further. "A shame. It would have been very interesting for us all if you had."

Bush caught his breath at the thought, but Hornblower was already continuing.

"In any case, further discussion on the subject will have to wait until you are mended. Archie may have given his blessing -- and believe me, though we were not strictly exclusive in such matters, those blessings did not come lightly from me or him -- but your health must be considered as well."

Bush stared now in his turn. Surely Hornblower did not mean ...? But those dark eyes were frankly interested now, and if there were still lines of grief on the handsome face they did not appear to give Hornblower pause. Bush listened to his words in disbelief, blinking at the last. That was only sensible, whatever he might wish right now. Too, they were in no position to begin anything with the Admiralty looking over their shoulders at their every move.

The words were out before he could stop them.

"Stay with me."

* * *

Bush wanted to sink through the floor. To speak discreetly about the possibility was one thing; to openly entreat in such a manner was inexcusable. He directed his gaze downward and cursed himself a hundred times over. Why could he suddenly not control his tongue?

There was another silence, coloured by Bush's silent recriminations. Then Hornblower spoke again.

"Why, thank you, William," he said, and Bush looked up to find him leaning very close. "I'd like that."

As kisses went, it wasn't much. Bush was unused to kissing; he had frequented prostitutes for the past ten years, and his activities in that quarter rarely went beyond the act itself. Besides, he had not much fondness for it; but then Bush was not a romantic soul, and so could not see the point. He was learning now though, and quickly -- Hornblower clearly did like to kiss, and had most likely been indulging in such activity with Kennedy for the past ten years. Consequently he was more accomplished at the job than Bush had imagined, quickly reducing him to a mass of tingling nerves with a series of small bites and nuzzles leading from mouth to collarbone and back for another assault. Bush could not catch his breath nor move a muscle; he could only lie passively while he tried to cope with it all.

Hornblower was careful with him, mindful of his wounds. He paused between instructive bouts of kissing to pull off Bush's clothes and his own, then wasted no time in sliding into the narrow bed and enclosing their shared warmth under cover. Bush wanted to protest; he wanted to see Hornblower, to take in the details of that long-limbed body as he had not allowed himself to do on _Renown_ , the day of his infamous shower on deck. But Hornblower was already moving on, so Bush had to content himself with the promise of a full inspection later.

Hornblower was conducting an inspection of his own; he seemed determined to catalogue every inch of Bush's flesh, running fingers and tongue over him with equal fervour, bringing him to the brink of completion several times in quick succession. Each time Bush clutched at him and he desisted, turning his attentions elsewhere, giving Bush time to recover his senses a little and begin to return all the favours he was receiving. He fleetingly wished Kennedy was here, so he could test the texture of that sheaf of golden hair, feel its smoothness on his chest or back as he indulged his senses to the full.

Hornblower's skin was very soft and smooth on his back and legs, and rough where salt and sun had beat against it on his hands and neck and face. Bush found the contrast intriguing; he moved back and forth, tasting and touching until goosebumps rose and Hornblower groaned a warning. Bush reluctantly moved on to a different area of interest, learning the dips and valleys of Hornblower's chest, while Hornblower set to trying to trace every scar on his body with his tongue. They twined about each other like seals, Hornblower's lean frame twisting easily into new contortions while Bush lent his strength to keep them steady. The wonder of so much bare skin was amazing; at one point he found himself stroking his own body, and so unused was he to the feeling that it was some minutes before he realised it.

He looked up to find Hornblower leaning on his elbow, watching him with a smile -- number twelve, Bush noted hazily. Kennedy would be pleased.

"Would you rather I watched you?" Hornblower asked, rolling over to run a gentle hand over his thigh. They were chest-to-chest now, breathing heavily, and the taste of him was fresh on Bush's tongue.

He tried to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. "Not necessarily. If there's something you want--"

Hornblower cut him off with a kiss. "Everything. Anything," he said into his mouth. "But this will do very well." So saying, he reached out and enclosed him in a firm hold, setting up a rhythm that quickly brought Bush to the final glorious edge. He plummeted over it almost gratefully, gripping Hornblower with his arms and legs, feeling dozens of kisses on his face and neck.

He took a few moments to catch his breath, still caressing Hornblower's body. He rolled over loosely at Hornblower's gentle push; he would balk at nothing now. But the sensation he felt was quite different from his expectations. Hornblower lay full-length on his back, covering him with deliciously heavy warmth, and was thrusting between his thighs. Bush tightened his legs instinctively and was gratified to hear Hornblower moan into his ear. The slow, smooth rhythm Hornblower had begun quickly broke down into fragments as his climax overcame him, leaving him lying still and seemingly boneless on Bush's back.

Bush manoeuvred himself over so he could see Hornblower's face. "Next time," he said, "I should like to see you. Can we do that like this, do you think?"

Hornblower had appeared to be asleep; now his eyes snapped open and he looked at Bush with a lazy grin.

"Give me half an hour and we'll find out," he promised. Bush laughed aloud, feeling the aches from his scars which would pain him in the morning.

"Half an hour, sir?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you possessed of supernatural strength?"

"Well, perhaps an hour. Or two," Hornblower said. "And don't call me sir. That's an order." His grin stretched wider.

"Yes, sir," Bush said, and suffered a pinch. "Ouch! Well, what am I to call you then? It has to be 'sir' in public, surely."

"I suppose," Hornblower allowed. "And honestly, William, I cannot bear my Christian name. 'Hornblower' will have to suffice, I'm afraid."

Bush nodded and traced a finger over his smile. "You've smiled fourteen times today," he said.

"I've done what?" Hornblower stared at him. "Have you been keeping track? Whatever for?"

Bush was suddenly embarrassed. "It's nothing. Pay no mind to me," he said. "It's just whimsy."

Hornblower turned his face up and kissed him slowly. "I understand," he said. "I needn't tell you that you are the cause of every single one. I would not smile at all now if not for you."

Kennedy's name hung unspoken between them. Bush suddenly felt like an intruder in the bed as he had not before, inhabiting a space unsuited to him. He began to fidget, twisting his legs about, picking at a loose thread in the sheet. Hornblower trapped him into stillness and captured his face in both hands.

"I loved Archie quite a lot, you know," he said calmly. "I still do. I don't expect I shall ever stop -- at least I hope not. But he's dead, William, and we are alive. And it would be very rude of us to ignore the fact that he clearly chose us for each other – as a bequest in a will, if you like. I don't intend to disappoint him. Do you?"

Bush lay still under the influence of those hands and that voice, staring into warm dark eyes, feeling more comfortable than he ever had in his life. He could have this, Hornblower was saying. He could want and be wanted like this every day, for as long as he lived. All he had to do was take the risk, accept the danger as Kennedy had. Was it worthwhile?

Put like that, the answer was obvious; and being that Bush was an eminently practical man, he used their positions to pull Hornblower closer to him.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," he said, and kissed him.

END


End file.
